


Crossed Blades

by Magnetism_bind



Category: The Three Musketeers (2011), Young Blades 2001
Genre: Alternate versions, Blowjobs, Crossover, Fencing, Fingering, Hugh!D'Artagnan, M/M, Mads!Rochefort, Masturbation, Rimming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rochefort encounters D'Artagnan on his way to Paris and gives the young Gascon a fencing lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mads Mikkelsen was The Three Musketeers. Hugh Dancy was in Young Blades. Obviously there had to be a crossover.

Rochefort pulls on the reins, turning his head at the sound of a sword whistling through the air. Riding silently through the trees, he spots the source of it. A young man, no, more a boy really, is practicing his swordplay in a clearing. Rochefort draws his horse up at the edge of the clearing. He watches idly as the youth parties and fences against the tree trunk he's selected as his mortal enemy.

Someone has taught the boy the barest rudiments of swordplay, but not followed through with the proper training. Rochefort studies the youth as he moves back and forth with the sword. Each motion the youth takes is a half-step in the right direction, and needs only to be altered slightly to be perfected.

Abruptly the youth pauses to wipe at his brow. He sets his sword aside to tug his shirt up over his head, baring his chest. He drops it to the forest floor before picking his sword up again.

Rochefort leans forward in his saddle. The youth is caught between that perfect blend of awkward and graceful action, his limbs moving equally between the two. His form is young, and lithely muscled. Rochefort is intrigued, but he’s too distracted by the boy’s lack of technique.

He needs to be on his way, but his horse could use a brief respite.

The youth lunges, striking a blow against the tree. Frowning at it, he lunges forward again.

"You hold your sword too high." Rochefort says.

The youth whirls, raising his blade even higher at the anticipated threat. "Were you watching me?" He stands there, sword raised, chest heaving as he strives to catch his breath.

Rochefort shrugs, shifting in his seat, resting his hands on the pommel. "You could use some proper training."

“Why should I listen to you?” The youth inquires. “You carry a sword, but I see no proof that you’re any better with it than I am.”

“Are all Gascons so surly?” Rochefort murmurs. “It’s a wonder society hasn’t taken you in hand already.”

“You’re welcome to come down from your horse and try.” The youth retorts.

Rochefort’s sorely tempted. “It’s hardly worth my time, since you clearly possess only the vaguest sense of the tenets of fencing.”

The boy flushes. "I'm doing well enough on my own, thank you."

"Of course," Rochefort agrees. "If you intend trees to be your only adversaries, by all means, continue." He reaches for his water skin, raising it to his lips.

The young man pauses at that. "My aim is to join the royal musketeers."

Rochefort laughs before he can help himself. The flush rises higher over the young man's face, spreading to his ears.

“You’ll have to do better than that to join the musketeers.” Rochefort’s words are not entirely meant to be unkind. Surely it’s better for the youth to know what he’s facing when he attempts such a feat, rather than to go in completely unaware of the challenges ahead of him. In the company of the musketeers he’ll be taunted and ridiculed for his current efforts.

“How would you know?” The youth demands. “Are you a musketeer?”

“I am not.” Rochefort’s suppresses his distaste at the idea of such a thing. “But I have witnessed their training. You, my young friend, would not pass the entrance test.”

His horse neighs softly, and it reminds him of his duty. He should ride on and leave the country boy to his games. Rochefort nudges his steed forward with his knees, only to pull the reins up short when the youth steps in front of his horse.

“You know what it would take to join them?” The boy’s eyes are alight with fervent hope.

“I do.” Rochefort resists the urge to take his whip and knock the boy’s hand from his reins.

“Will you show me?”

 “And why would I do that?”

“Why not?” The youth counters. “Since you know so much about it, show me.”

“And what will you do in return?” Rochefort inquires.

The youth blinks. “What do you want? I have little money, and my father has nothing else to reward you.”

“Your mouth is all the reward I require.” Rochefort tells him. He wants to see the flush rise in the boy’s cheeks again. The look of it is appealing. He imagines it easily, placing the boy on his knees, young lips parted. Yes, that would be reward enough for a short amount of work.

“My mouth,” the youth falters. “What do you mean?”

“I want you to suck me off.” Rochefort eyes him. “Do that, and I’ll show you what you need to know.” It’s a bargain for amusement, born of boredom and the fact that he’s been traveling steadily on the cardinal’s business for the past week. Some light release would be pleasant indeed. There’s time enough for that.

“I, couldn’t-”

“I thought all Gascons were talented with their mouths.” Rochefort remarks. Now that brings the flush back, hotter than ever.

“Not this Gascon.” The youth draws himself up proudly.

“Suit yourself.” Rochefort turns his horse back to the road.

“Wait.”

Rochefort smiles to himself, and waits.

The boy hesitates. “You give me your word you’ll show me how to fight better?”

Rochefort swings down from his horse and holds out his hand. “I give you my word.”

The hesitation is still there for a moment, and then it’s gone. The youth places his hand in Rochefort’s. They shake and the boy leans his sword against the tree. Rochefort tethers his horse to a root.

“Where…” The youth falters again, glancing around the clearing. There’s little privacy for any sort of rendezvous but it’s not privacy Rochefort seeks.

“Here.” He directs the lad over to a tree. “On your knees.”

Obeying the order comes hard to the youth, Rochefort can tell. But in the end he does, sinking to the forest floor.

Rochefort unfastens his belt, tugging open his breeches. “Have you truly never done this before?”

“Of course not.” The youth retorts, glaring up at him. His eyes are bold indeed, and Rochefort thinks of pressing the boy flat on his belly in the dirt, kicking his legs apart and taking him there.

The youth licks his lips. “Well?”

Rochefort draws out his cock.  He’s half hard, but the way the boy is looking at him, it won’t take long. “Suck slowly at first, and mind your teeth.”

*  *  *

It’s not precisely how D’Artagnan thought today would go. He’d managed to sneak away before it was light and start riding towards Paris before they knew he was gone. His father is in favor of him joining the musketeers, but only when he’s older. The edict claws at D’Artagnan’s spirit. He’s old enough now, more than man enough to fight and serve his king.

If D’Artagnan stays at the farm any longer, he’ll die of boredom. He’s tried his best, but it’s not enough – the allure of the world beyond the farmyard holds too strong a pull. So that morning D’Artagnan had risen early, taken his father’s sword, and snuck out. He will make his fortune in Paris or die. The last thing he desires is to be sent home with his tail between his legs, having failed to win his place serving the king.

Now though, here he is, on his knees in the middle of a forest, about to suck off a complete stranger in the hopes that the man will teach him something. Should he be ashamed at wanting to succeed so much that it drives him to seek aid from a stranger?

The man’s cock dangles in front of him. D’Artagnan stares at it.

“Use your tongue.”

D’Artagnan takes a deep breath and leans forward.

It’s not as unpleasant a sensation as D’Artagnan fears, licking along the erect shaft. The taste isn’t entirely discomfiting, merely unfamiliar. D’Artagnan adjusts his throat, sliding the man’s cock warily further. The man makes no move to thrust or force his head, merely watches the movements of D’Artagnan’s mouth upon him. D’Artagnan finds himself wondering what happened to the man’s eye, hidden away behind the eye patch.

*  *  *

Rochefort watches his cock move between the boy’s lips. He’s had better yes, but the reluctant set to the boy’s jaw, joined with determination to fulfill his side of the bargain is ample enjoyment.

He must truly desire to be a musketeer if he’s willing to do this.

The boy draws back to take a breath.

“Slow,” Rochefort tells him. “Take your time with it.”

The youth ignores this and takes Rochefort down his throat far too quickly. He gags, and Rochefort sighs, withdrawing from his mouth. “I told you, slow.”

“I thought I could,”

“Like this.” Rochefort holds his jaw, and eases his cock back in. He can feel the boy struggling not to choke, and he moves slower, until he’s merely gliding back and forth across the youth’s tongue.

“Slow until you can handle it. Then, a little further.”

The boy swallows reflexively, the movement sending a wave of heat over Rochefort’s cock, then draws back. He licks his way tentatively around Rochefort’s cock, rubbing the tip of his tongue along the thick vein running down the underside.

“That’s,” Rochefort sucks in a breath. “Very good.”

He’s amused to see the determination rekindling in the boy’s eyes. This time the youth goes slower, bobbing his head in a gradual rhythm. Rochefort curls his fingers through the youth’s hair as he feels himself close to release. His hips thrust slightly forward and the boy does his best not to gag again as Rochefort spills down his throat, a steady fluid stream that he manages to swallow it down.

Rochefort’s draws his cock back from between his lips. “If you’re as natural at swordplay as you are at sucking cock, the lesson will go well indeed.” He tucks himself away and fastens his breeches once more.

D’Artagnan glowers.  “The lesson now?”

“Get your sword.” Rochefort instructs. “Let’s begin.”

D’Artagnan fetches his sword and turns to face him expectantly. 

*  *  *

Rochefort studies Gascon’s framework as he demonstrates his technique. “Who taught you?”

“My father, he knew a little-”

“A little,” Rochefort purses his lips. “He did you no favors,” He steps in closer, pressing down on D’Artagnan’s sword, “Hold your sword here, and drop your left hand.”

“But,”

Rochefort moves behind him, pinning his left arm behind his back. “Shall I bind it to make it easier to remember?”

D’Artagnan tenses. “No.” He can feel Rochefort’s body hard against him, the soft curve of his cock pressed against the crease of D’Artagnan’s ass. Uncomfortably he’s reminded that he’s had the man’s cock in his mouth just a few moments before.

Rochefort releases him. “Sword up.”

He directs D’Artagnan through a series of drills and exercises until the youth is sweating hard with his attempts to follow. It doesn’t take long for D’Artagnan to realize the man knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his mouth shut and focuses on the instructions.

At last Rochefort eyes the sun and reaches for his water skin again. “And now, I must be on my way.” He reaches for the reins of his horse, who’s been waiting patiently through this little interval.

“Thank you.” D’Artagnan wipes the sweat from his brow. He means it. He’s not vain enough that he can’t admit that he needs help.

“Practice.” Rochefort swings up into his saddle. “And you’ll improve.”

“I will.” On a whim, D’Artagnan salutes him with his sword, and is rewarded with a slight smile.

Rochefort guides his horse back to the road and continues on. His brief respite took longer than he intended. He keeps a steady pace until he reaches the town of Meung where his guard is waiting at the inn.

*  *  *

D’Artagnan reaches the inn as afternoon is fading leisurely into evening. He dismounts from his horse and ties it to the hitching post before heading into the inn. There’s a group of men standing around the wooden tables, drinking and conversing. One of them murmurs something, and they all laugh.

D’Artagnan glances behind him, but there’s nothing there to amuse. He keeps walking towards the inn door. But the next voice that speaks is familiar.

“I didn’t realize when last we met that you had such poor taste in horses.”

The guards laugh again and D’Artagnan flushes as he spies the man from the clearing sitting there at the table, watching him. Of all the things fate has bestowed upon him, why is this happening now?

“Whereas I failed to realize you had such bad manners.”

One of the men chortles loudly at the look upon Rochefort’s face. “I’d take it back, boy, before he guts you.”

D’Artagnan’s temper flares at the term. “You presume to call me boy?”

“Would you prefer lad?” The guard taunts.

“I’d prefer you to face me with a sword.” D’Artagnan lays his right hand upon his hilt. He faces the one who insulted him, but he can’t help glancing at the man with the eye patch.

The guard laughs as he draws his, nodding at his fellow guardsmen. They surround D’Artagnan easily, taunting him as he whirls wildly, trying to face them all at once and failing.

“Give up,” Rochefort calls. “We both know you’re no match for them.” It’s not entirely true. If the youth remembers one quarter of what Rochefort taught him, he might be able to take one or two of the guards.  But there’s little chance with all of them pinning him in.

D’Artagnan’s turns first one way and then another, desperately trying to hold his ground. One of them pokes him in the back of the knee with his sword tip. D’Artagnan spins, bringing his blade up too quickly. Another of the guards knocks it from his hand easily. D’Artagnan stills as the guard places his boot upon his father’s blade.

“I see you also learned little from my earlier lesson.” Rochefort observes.

“And I see you’re a coward hiding behind your men instead of fighting me yourself.” D’Artagnan glances at him.

Rochefort’s eye narrows.

For the first time, D’Artagnan considers that his words may have been poorly chosen as the man stands. Rochefort approaches the circle of guards and they part for him. D’Artagnan faces him warily.

“Pick up your sword.”

D’Artagnan does, scooping it up from the dirt.

Rochefort draws his blade and they face each other as the guards make way for them. The fight is short and sweet, ending with D’Artagnan flat on his back, sword point at his throat. The blade presses into his skin, and he swallows reflexively. The motion reminds him of what happened earlier and he blushes, gazing up at Rochefort.

“How many times will I have to disarm you before you learn your lesson?” Rochefort muses. D’Artagnan’s sword is still in his hand, and he presses his boot down upon the youth’s hand until D’Artagnan releases it. Rochefort kicks the sword away.

“As many as it takes.” D’Artagnan retorts. His breath is tight in his chest from exertion. He tries to ignore the taunts from the guardsmen, focusing only on the man with the eye patch.

“Shall I dispatch you for your insult?” Rochefort drags the point of the blade down D’Artagnan’s chest, “Or leave you merely pricked by the lesson?” He presses the blade against D’Artagnan’s belly, watching D’Artagnan tense. “Well? No apology, young Gascon?”

“I admit you are no coward.” D’Artagnan says grudgingly.

The blade travels downward to rest at his crotch and he stiffens. Rochefort studies him, young limbs sprawled across the ground, the afternoon shadows falling across the youth’s face as he gazes upward. He’s killed men before for such an insult.

Instead, he merely tells the boy, “You should have watched your footwork.”

D’Artagnan opens his mouth, but the blade presses sharper against him so he shuts it again.

“Next time, remember that.” Rochefort taps his crotch with the blade point and steps back. “Go about your way.”

D’Artagnan gets to his feet stiffly. “I was about to inquire about a room for the night.”

“Indeed.” Rochefort raises his eyebrows. He bows with a flourish, gesturing to the inn. “Be my guest.”

The guards return to their table, calling after D’Artagnan as he walks past them. Rochefort watches the youth and returns to his place.

*  *  *

After supping that evening, Rochefort goes out to the stable to check on his horse. He’s known too many careless stable boys who don’t know how to tend a horse properly, so he makes a habit of doing so.

Tonight, his steed is adequately watered and fed. Rochefort strokes his nose, murmuring at him, when he hears a noise. Rochefort turns to see D’Artagnan at the end of the stables. The youth looks at him with resentful eyes as he unrolls his cloak from his pack.

“No room at the inn, young Gascon?”

D’Artagnan bites back the retort he has ready. At last all he offers is, “I couldn’t afford it.” His pride rankles in admitting such a thing, but there it is. What little money he has will have to last him till he reaches Paris.

He spreads his cloak out upon the bench.

“You’d be more comfortable on the straw.” Rochefort comments.

“I’d be more comfortable in a real bed, but I don’t see that happening.” D’Artagnan snaps.

Rochefort shrugs. “That depends.” He remembers D’Artagnan’s determination in sucking him off. How his thin shoulders tensed and strained as he fenced. What else would the Gascon do?

D’Artagnan pauses. “On?”

Rochefort strolls towards him. “Do you want another fencing lesson?”

It’s half a mock suggestion, half a challenge. Rochefort could return to the inn without a second’s thought. There’s nothing to hold him here. He has a comfortable bed, and a jar of wine waiting for him. But the manner in which D’Artagnan hesitates leaves him curious, so he lingers, waiting to see what the boy will say.

D’Artagnan is proud, yes. Proud of his lineage, of his family, the noble blood coursing through his veins. He knows he’s hot-tempered, impetuous, quick to mouth off before he thinks. All of this he knows full well. He also knows that the lesson this man gave him earlier is invaluable and thatfor all the humiliation heaped upon him by the guards, he knows that if he had only faced one of them, he would have done better.  

“What would I have to do?” His gaze passes over the man’s groin before meeting his eyes.

“For a second lesson, I’ll take something else.” Rochefort says after a moment’s consideration.

“What?”

“Take your breeches down.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes widen. “You insult me in front of your companions, and now you expect me to let you bed me like some common kitchen maid?” He swings at Rochefort.

Rochefort catches his arm before he can land the blow. “Is my Gascon offended?”

“Don’t,” D’Artagnan tries to pull away.

Rochefort’s grip tightens, and then he releases him. “It’s your choice.”

D’Artagnan rubs at his arm. He knows what the man’s referring to, of course, but he’s never considered such a thing before.

“Won’t I be too sore after?” D’Artagnan questions, knowing that as soon as he says that much, he’s as good as given in.

“Is this your first time?”

D’Artagnan keeps his gaze on the ground as he murmurs, “Yes.”

Rochefort sighs, but why not? There’s time. The sun’s still making its way down beyond the trees. He doesn’t have to be back on the road until tomorrow morning. The only other activity at the inn is playing cards. He’s more in the mood for this.

“Very well. Lesson first, then bedding.” He eyes D’Artagnan. “On your word.”

“You have it.”

*  *  *

They face each other in the meadow beyond the inn yard. D’Artagnan can’t decide if Rochefort chose the location based on its suitability, or to spare him from more insults. Either way, he’s reluctantly grateful.

“Do you know what you did wrong earlier?” Rochefort draws his sword.

“Got out of bed this morning?”

Rochefort rests his sword against his thigh. “Your wit is not as charming as you imagine, boy.” He knows how much the insult bothers D’Artagnan. Now he’s gratified to see the boy clench his fists, but hold his tongue this time.

“No.” D’Artagnan says at last.

“Would you like to know?” Rochefort’s tone is pleasant enough.

D’Artagnan wets his lips. “Yes.”

“Good. You can always learn more. Remember that. You didn’t move fast enough to deflect, or attack with a killing blow.”

“I didn’t want to kill him.” D’Artagnan protests.

“Didn’t you?” Rochefort raises his eyebrow. “If you carry a sword, and take offense at a man’s words, you must be prepared for the consequences.” He nods at D’Artagnan. “Go through the series of exercises I showed you this morning.”

D’Artagnan’s sulking, but he obeys. Rochefort circles him as he goes through them.  “Keep your sword up,” he barks, watching the way D’Artagnan’s frame tightens at the reprimand. “You’ll have to do better.”

“Better than what?” D’Artgnan challenges.

“Better than this.” Rochefort brings his sword up against D’Artagnan’s wrist, knocking his sword away. “Your grip is too loose. You must hold it gently, but firmly. Fetch it.” D’Artagnan turns and as he does, Rochefort swats him across the ass with the edge of his sword.

D’Artagnan yelps, turning to glare at him. “What was that for?”

“Your footwork is clumsy, but with practice you’ll move more easily. “ Rochefort tells him. “Sword.”

D’Artagnan grabs it, resisting the urge to rub at his backside. If the blow had been any harder his breeches would have been torn.

“Again.” Rochefort tells him.

Rochefort works him until the sun drops low behind the thatched roof of the inn. Shadows fall heavily across the meadow. The evening breeze rustles through the grass like a whisper.

“Enough.” Rochefort sheathes his sword. “You’ll be sore tomorrow, regardless.”

D’Artagnan remembers then what he has managed to forget while they were training. His skin is slick with sweat as he gazes at Rochefort. A drop of sweat rests on his top lip, and he licks it away, remembering too, the weight of the man’s cock in his mouth, and the salt of his semen.

Rochefort eyes him as he just stands there in the grass. For a moment he’s half tempted to ask D’Artagnan’s age, but he’s old enough to carry a sword, and old enough to dream of joining the musketeers, and that’s old enough for Rochefort.

“Come on.” Rochefort leads the way back to the inn yard, D’Artagnan a few steps behind. Rochefort pauses, glancing at him. “You stink like that horse of yours. Go, wash in the horse trough before you come to my room. It’s at the top of the stairs.” He goes inside.

*  *  *

D’Artagnan strips off his shirt to wash at the trough. He splashes water over his face and chest, scrubbing wetly at his face. He pulls his shirt back on, leaving it untucked.

His knuckles are sore from where Rochefort’s boot had pressed against them. D’Artagnan sucks at them for a moment, nursing the ache. He looks upto see a movement at the inn window. Rochefort’s there, watching him.

D’Artagnan drops his hand from his mouth and goes into the inn.

He hurries past the guards who are all drinking in the main room. His heart gallops in his chest as he mounts the stairs. He gave his word after all, and the man kept his.

His thighs ache with the strain of the exercises, but when he looks at his sword, and remembers the man’s instructions, D’Artagnan can’t help thinking it was worth it.

He raps boldly upon the door, and waits.

“Come.”

D’artgnan pushes it open.

Rochefort is pouring himself a glass of wine from the jug. He’s removed his tunic for the first time, stripped down to his shirt and breeches.

D’Artagnan hesitates. The man before him has proved he’s experienced with the sword. Now, D’Artagnan thinks again of the forest.  It was the first experience he’s had beyond mere kissing and fumbling. He’s never lain with a woman, much less a man.

“Come in if you’re coming in.” Rochefort doesn’t look up from his wine.

 D’Artagnan closes the door behind him and squares his shoulders.

Rochefort raises his cup to his mouth and drinks, looking D’Artagnan over with a frank, appraising gaze.  “Undress.”

D’Artagnan sets his sword belt aside. He pulls his boots off and sets them by the door. Rochefort watches him as D’Artagnan removes his stockings, then tugs his shirt over his head, and then his breeches. The thin drawers upon his torso go next. At last D’Artagnan is naked, standing there before him.

Rochefort licks his lips and takes another sip of wine.

“On the bed and spread your legs.”

The wine is poor, but drinkable. Rochefort takes another sip and glances at D’Artagnan, thinking this, at least, has made the journey worthwhile. D’Artagnan, lying there naked upon his back, looks even younger than he did when Rochefort first spied him in the forest. There’s the faintest line of light hair leading from his navel to his groin. The hair there is slightly darker. Even his cock, naked as the rest of him, looks young, resting still against his thigh. Has the boy ever had his cock sucked? 

D’Artagnan gazes at the ceiling for a moment before his curiosity gets the better of him and he has to look at Rochefort again. Rochefort removes his boots, but nothing else before settling upon the bed.

“Well?” D’Artagnan asks, a trifle impatiently.

“Well what?” Rochefort lays a hand on his thigh. D’Artagnan’s skin has the smoothness of youth still. The hair on his legs is light and fine. Rochefort runs his fingertips along his calf.

“Aren’t you going to…?” D’Artagnan shrugs, reddening at what they’re talking of, or rather not speaking of since he can’t force the word out.

Rochefort laughs, and heat floods D’Artagnan from head to toe. “I will, when I’m good and ready.” He reaches for the saddlebag slung over the foot of the bed. “You’ll thank me for this tomorrow.”

“We will see about that.” D’Artagnan murmurs.

He’s rewarded with another laugh.

Rochefort pours the oil into the palm of his hand. “Were there no farmhands at home?”

“Why do you ask?” D’Artagnan sucks in a breath as Rochefort brushes a finger down his inner thigh before nudging his legs wider apart. D’Artgnan’s gaze returns to the ceiling as he feels a hand between his thighs.

“Simply that if I worked upon your father’s farm, I’d have done this long ago.” Rochefort rubs his forefinger in a circular motion over D’Artagnan’s entrance.

“You presume,” D’Artagnan starts, and then Rochefort pushes inside, past the resistance of tight muscle and he falls silent, trying desperately not to tense against the finger invading him.

“I presume nothing.” Rochefort drawls. “Save that this will be the first good fucking you’ll experience in your young life.”

D’Artagnan’s lips part in protest, but there’s nothing to say because he has nothing to compare it to, and Rochefort certainly seems to know what he’s doing as he eases his fingers further inside the young Gascon. D’Artagnan arches back against the bed as Rochefort’s other hand curls around his cock.

“What made you want to be a musketeer?” If this is to be pleasurable for both of them, the boy will have to relax.

“My father,” D’Artagnan begins, then winces as Rochefort pushes further. “He was one until he was wounded. He always said there was nothing more glorious than the noble pursuit of serving your king.”

Rochefort snorts. He adds another finger, stretching D’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan glares up at him. “I know the sound of mockery, sir, what do you mean by,” but the harsh clasp of Rochefort’s hand tightening upon his cock makes him fall back in silence.

“It’s all very well to have such a noble aim in mind.” Rochefort curls the fingers currently inside D’Artagnan’s ass, smiling as D’Artagnan utters a small, helpless gasp. “As long as you’re prepared for the realities of that service as well.” He pulls his fingers free and reaches for the oil again.

“What realities are those?” D’Artagnan watches as he slicks his fingers again. This time two fingers sink easily inside him, and he moans, ashamed down to his bones.

Rochefort merely grins. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” He moves his fingers more quickly, fucking D’Artagnan open as he answers his question. “Being sent into battle when you disagree with the king’s cause. Killing a man when the only difference between yourself and him is the flag you follow.”

“But,” D’Artagnan wants to respond, to argue with the man, but the fingers moving between his legs are too distracting. Rochefort’s free hand slides over his cock once more and D’Artagnan’s words strangle in his throat as he tries not to rut against the hands torturing him. A bead of sweat gathers in the hollow his throat as he suffers, waiting.  

His gaze falls on the sword he stood against the wall, the sword that means so much to him. “Will I make a good musketeer?” D’Artagnan blushes as he asks because he knows what the man will say. Why ever did he ask such a foolish question?

Rochefort’s hands pause for a moment. He’s asking the wrong man. Rochefort cares little for the musketeers, but the nature of what D’Artagnan’s asking, what he seeks to know, that feeling Rochefort knows.

“You have the makings of a fine swordsman,” Rochefort murmurs, and then, “if you practice.”

This time D’Artagnan flushes with embarrassed pleasure at the man’s words. Rochefort’s gazing at him, an intent look in his eye. Abruptly, D’Artagnan wonders what it would be like to kiss him.

He turns his eyes back to the sword before Rochefort can guess his thoughts. “They say the king rewards those who please him.”

“Is that why you’re doing this? The hope of reward?” Rochefort curls his fingers again and D’Artagnan exhales shakily before he can reply.

“No.” D’Artagnan shakes his head. “It’s not that. But I would like them to hear my name spoken in the royal court, to have people know it for that of a king’s musketeer.”

 _How long would his bright passion last_? Rochefort wonders. “Acquit yourself and they’ll know your name soon enough. Then you can decide for yourself if it’s what you hoped for.”

“What of you?” D’Artagnan gazes at him. “You never wanted to join the musketeers?” He doesn’t speak of Rochefort’s talent with the sword, but it’s obvious the man is adept with a blade.

“I had higher aims.” Rochefort reaches for the oil again.

“What’s higher than serving the king?” D’Artagnan asks, his eyes on Rochefort’s hands.

 _Serving the man behind the throne,_ Rochefort thinks _,_ momentaril _y_ weary. He wraps his hand around D’Artagnan’s cock once more. Maybe now the boy will shut his mouth. There’s a certain appeal in D’Artagnan’s naivety, but it’s also wearing. Still, it will be stripped from him soon enough.

D’Artagnan gasps, but keeps talking. "Surely you could have been a musketeer,"

"I have better things to do than prance around serving that fop of a king." Rochefort starts stroking him again.

"Isn't that treason?" D'Artagnan stares at him.

“What are you truly hoping for, Gascon?” Rochefort can’t contain his exasperation.  

“I told you.” D’Artagnan props himself up on his elbows. “I wish to join the musketeers.”

“Why?”

“What better life is there?” D’Artagnan asks, gazing at him with guileless eyes.

His innocent enthusiasm sickens Rochefort. He doesn’t answer the question. Instead he simply pushes his fingers into D’Artagnan, pleased at the way D’Artagnan finally goes quiet. Rochefort is rougher this time, and D’Artagnan’s head falls back, his chest rising and falling with exertion.

He presses lightly, but cruelly against the boy’s scrotum until D’Artagnan moans.

 _Now_ , Rochefort thinks, _I’ll fuck him now._ His own cock strains against the front of his breeches at thought of making D’Artagnan cry out in earnest this time. He removes his fingers. “Turn over.”

D’Artagnan hesitates only a moment before obeying. His next sound is a whimper as his cock comes into contact with the blanket underneath him. He rests his face against the pillow, trying to compose himself. He’s not a child, but a man, he reminds himself. Still, in the depths of his soul, he knows he’s still afraid as much as he’s aroused.

Rochefort undoes his breeches, gazing at the youth stretched out upon the bed before him. As eager as he is to continue, he can’t resist the sight. Rochefort smooths his hand over the slender curve of D’Artagnan’s back, down the slope to his buttocks. He palms one cheek, squeezing it as D’Artagnan murmurs something into the pillow.

He caresses the other as well, enjoying the taut young flesh under his fingers. D’Artagnan is still caught in the flush of youth, the bloom of it bright upon his form. The first ripening of manhood is only just starting to overtake him. He’s clay, ready to be fashioned into whatever the artist devises, and Rochefort is sorely tempted to be that artist.

D’Artagnan’s cheeks are pliant beneath his exploration and then Rochefort slides his tongue between them. At that, D’Artagnan goes rigid, gripping the bed sheets. Rochefort smothers his laughter. He’d tell the youth to relax, but he’s too busy inserting his tongue inside D’Artagnan’s ass. He slips his hand underneath the Gascon to cup his balls. D’Artagnan moans, rubbing against his hand, while Rochefort keeps licking him open until D’Artagnan is nothing but a helpless writhing mess under his touch.

 _Now_ , Rochefort thinks, heady with the thought of finally sinking his cock inside the ass he’s been working open. He draws his cock out and slicks it. The first brush of his cock head against D’Artagnan’s hole makes him shiver, and Rochefort is torn between telling him to relax or thrusting inside so sharply that D’Artagnan cries aloud.

He lingers over the choice too long.

There’s a rap at the door and Rochefort glares over his shoulder. “What?” The head of his cock rests just there against D’Artagnan, about to breach him.

“There’s a lady in a carriage downstairs, my lord.” It’s Moliere, one of his men. “She says to fetch you immediately. You’re to continue on to Paris tonight.”

Rochefort grits his teeth in a silent growl of frustration. D’Artagnan quivers slightly under his touch, and Rochefort resists the urge to run his hand along the boy’s neck.

“Tell her I’ll be there shortly.” With a sigh, he straightens up.

Rochefort tucks himself away, fastening his breeches. Of all the ill-timing in the world, this is by far the worst.

D’Artagnan rolls over on his belly. “You’re not truly leaving now, are you?” He stares at Rochefort in disbelief.

“I have a duty to perform.” Rochefort reaches for his sword belt. “More pressing than this, I’m afraid.” He casts a last look at the sight of D’Artagnan, half raised off the bed in indignant protest at being left in this state, and sighs again.

Rochefort walks back over to the bed. “Until the next time, boy.” He tugs D’Artagnan’s head up for a brief press of his lips, as his gloved hand slides over D’Artagnan’s cock for one last regretful stroke. “Remember to keep your sword up,” His fingers rub against D’Artagnan’s leaking slit. “But not too high.”

He slings his saddlebag over his shoulder and tips the brim of his hat in D’Artagnan’s direction.

“Don’t call me boy.” D’Artagnan mutters.

Rochefort just laughs and closes the door behind him.

He whistles as he goes downstairs. The guards are already saddled and ready. Milady’s waiting in her carriage. Rochefort swings up into his saddle, glancing for a second at the window above. There’s no sign of D’Artagnan.

“You look flushed, Rochefort.” Milady observes him through the carriage window. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Nothing important milady.” Rochefort nods at her. “Shall we?”

*  *  *

D’Artagnan lays there on the bed, frustration dripping off his frame like sweat.  His erect cock mocks him. Closing his eyes, he strokes his right hand over it, thinking of Rochefort’s gloves. His left hand explores between his legs, tentatively rubbing across his hole. He’d only felt the tip of the man’s cock before they’d been interrupted. What would it have felt like to have it entirely inside him?

D’Artagnan pushes the tip of his forefinger inside, then a little further. He’s still loose from the man’s ministrations. It doesn’t hurt too much so he adds a second, while his other hand moves, working upon his cock. He thrusts tentatively with his fingers, but the angle’s too awkward to maintain a satisfying rhythm. At last D’Artagnan settles for merely holding them there inside himself as he strokes his cock.

How would it have felt? He thinks of Rochefort’s cock as he saw it first in the forest, warm to the touch, swelling under his tongue. D’Artagnan tries to picture how it would be, but his imaginings don’t do it justice.

He comes at last with a strangled moan, clenching around his own fingers. His mess settles on his belly, cooling distastefully. D’Artagnan eases his fingers free and slumps back against the pillows. At least now he’ll be able to sleep.

It’s a poor substitute though for what he wanted.


	2. Chapter 2

_A week later:_

D’Artagnan tugs at the collar of his tunic trying to straighten it. It’s a little loose. He had to notch his belt tight to make it look presentable, but it’s the uniform of a musketeer. That’s what matters. He straightens up at the thought, proud that he’s standing there on display in the service of the king _._ If his father and mother could only see him now.

Of course, it wasn’t as though everything at court was entirely ideal. D’Artagnan isn’t naïve. For a moment he remembers the look on the man with the eye patch’s face when D’Artagnan told him his desire to be a musketeer. Not quite disdain or disgust, but something closely akin to that. In that moment it was as though they had been miles apart from each other and D’Artagnan could never begin to understand what the other man was thinking.

 The man, always _the man_ in his memories now. D’Artagnan hadn’t even gotten his name before the man left the inn in the service of the mysterious, demanding milady who had required him so abruptly. 

D’Artagnan curses himself for the hundredth time. Because of his folly, he will never know the name of the man with the eye patch and the amused lips who instructed him how to fence and who very nearly bedded D’Artagnan for the first time.

He tries not to think of that again, but the memories are still too vivid. The fingers confidently working their way into him, and then, oh, god in heaven, that tongue. Such a brief, but lingering touch.  And, then, that brief light touch of his cock before he had left.

D’Artagnan shifts his stance, remembering that, remembering much he had wanted it to continue.  

He sighs. Well, so it hadn’t happened in the end. There’s no point in dwelling on it now.

His attention returns to the present, the nervous excitement in his belly as he stands in the row of musketeers. The memory of the man with the eye patch fades as he thinks of his adventures in Paris ever since he entered the city. Of course, in a way, it’s because of the man with the eye patch that he’s now standing where he is. That and what Athos refers to as ‘your hot-headed Gascon blood.’

Dear Athos. D’Artagnan shoots the musketeer a look, barely unable to repress a smile at the thought of their first meeting. Athos, naturally, doesn’t smile as he waits stoically in line besides D’Artagnan. His expression reminds D’Artagnan once again that there’s no point in getting overly excited. They are merely standing guard outside the palace to give the king a proper welcome once he’s returned from his summer tour of the countryside.

Porthos nudges D’Artagnan, grinning at him. “Try to contain yourself.”

“I’m trying.” D’Artagnan mutters, blushing.

For that matter, he wouldn’t have met any of the musketeers if he hadn’t thought he’d spied the man in the eye patch walking ahead of him through the streets of Paris. Even now D’Artagnan isn’t sure why he had pursued the man. Only that he _had_ to speak to him again, to thank him for… Well, never mind. Merely that in his haste to follow, he had bumped into Athos and offended him, and consequently offended both Aramis and Porthos as well in quick succession. Then they had all turned up together for his duel with Athos, only to be accosted by the cardinal’s guards. After they’d bested the guards, Aramis had congratulated D’Artagnan on handling himself. The musketeers had taken him back to their rooms and celebrated with wine and laughter, retelling the fight until even Athos was smiling at the tale.

The following morning they’d introduced him to Monsieur Treville, the captain of the musketeers, who had agreed to let D’Artagnan take the entrance test.

D’Artagnan smooths out his tunic again, his pride overcoming him. He’d passed. Now he’s a musketeer. This is only the beginning. It still feels like a dream.

Idly, he glances up in the direction of the palace steps, only to freeze in surprise. There on the steps, watching the musketeers on parade, stands the man with the eye patch.

D’Artagnan catches his breath. He watches the man stand there, one hand on his sword hilt, eyes now fixed on the cardinal who stands beside him. Heat pools in D’Artagnan’s groin as he remembers all too well the way those fingers felt, how much he wanted what had been about to happen in that inn, even if the memory of that wanting fills him with shame.

He stares at his boots, trying to control himself. He’d assumed the man was a courtier, but foolishly D’Artagnan hadn’t thought that he’d see him at court.

D’Artagnan dares another glance upwards to where the man in the eye patch is standing.

“Do you know that man?” He nudges Aramis.

“Which?” Aramis glances upward.

“The one with the eye patch.” D’Artagnan whispers. Probably the man in the eye patch is an earl or a duke, and he should just stop thinking about him. From the man’s previous behavior, it was obvious that he wouldn’t want to support a young candidate in the musketeers.

“Ah, him,” Aramis shakes his head when he realizes who D’Artagnan is gazing at. “You’d better stay clear of him, my young friend.”

“Why?” D’Artagnan looks at him in surprise.

“That’s the Comte de Rochefort.” Aramis explains. “He’s the cardinal’s man.” As though that explained everything.

“What does that mean?” The cardinal was the king’s advisor. What difference did it make?

“The cardinal plays at advising the king, but he is also fond of playing his own game as well. Beware any man in his pay.”

D’Artagnan glances up the steps again, and this time Rochefort is looking back. There’s the faintest smile on his thin lips, and D’Artagnan thinks again of the man’s fingers curling inside him.

  _Why then did he help me join the musketeers?_

“But we all serve France, surely?”

“Don’t be a fool.” Athos breaks into the conversation. “In the end, the cardinal’s France and the king’s are two very different countries indeed. Listen to Aramis, boy and avoid the man. Rochefort is not a man to be trifled with.”

He straightens up and Aramis follows suit. D’Artagnan is about to argue the point further when he hears the trumpets and realizes the king is arriving. He straightens immediately, trying not to let his gaze wonder towards Rochefort again.

*  *  *

Rochefort gazes at the young musketeer standing in line. So, the boy made it after all. Well, perhaps there will be time to collect his half of the wager after all.

Rochefort smiles at the thought. After leaving the youth in the inn, he hadn’t thought he’d run into him again, but now here he is, and wearing the tunic of a musketeer no less. There’s no accounting for the disappointment Rochefort feels at seeing the young man in the company of the musketeers he most loathes. Of course the Gascon fell in with the trio. It’s only fitting. What Rochefort can’t tell is if any of them has bedded him yet. He glances at Athos, so stern and unyielding. He would be the most likely candidate, and yet rumor is the man is still nursing his broken heart. Aramis then, if any of them has done it.

Rochefort’s hand tightens on his sword hilt. If fulfilling his duty cost him bedding the Gascon first, there’s nothing to be done about it, but he curses the cardinal Milady for calling him away before he had a chance to finish the deed.

The cardinal steps in close to his shoulder, nodding at D’Artagnan.  

 “That young cadet with the trio of troublemakers, who’s he?”

Rochefort shrugs. “No one of consequence.” The last thing he needs is the cardinal getting interested in the boy.

“No doubt.” The cardinal regards him with amused eyes. “And yet, clearly they have a use for him. Perhaps we should find out who he is, and we may also find a use for him.” There’s a subtle command there that Rochefort is powerless to resist.

“As you wish.” He nods, and the cardinal turns away to greet the king as he comes up the stairs.

Rochefort halts a page boy passing him by. “The young cadet down there,” he nods at D’Artagnan. “Find out his name and his lodgings.” The page boy bows and scampers off.

*  *  *

D’Artagnan can’t help glancing upward again. The Comte de Rochefort. So he is a nobleman. In spite of Athos and Aramis told him, he feels indebted to the man. If he hadn’t given D’Artagnan those lessons D’Artagnan would never have done as well as he had in the fight with the cardinal’s guard and be here now alongside the musketeers. Of course Rochefort wouldn’t have been pleased to know his teachings were put to use against the cardinal’s men but there’s little D’Artagnan can do about that now. He owes the man, though he still blushes to think of it.

 *  *  *

Rochefort debates dropping the matter entirely. He's back in Paris now. Plenty of whores if he needs one. There’s no need to pursue the Gascon. The youth glances up at him again and Rochefort finds himself strangely reluctant to abandon the matter so readily. Besides the boy has only been in Paris a few days. How has he fallen in with the irrepressible trio so soon?  
  
"Is that the youth?" The king asks of the cardinal, and Rochefort follows his inquisitive fingers. The king is, of course pointing at the young musketeer. Has he gone unnoticed by anyone?

The cardinal represses a sigh. “I believe so, your majesty. Shall I summon him for you?”

The king shakes his head dismissively. “Not just yet. I wish to bathe first. Have him brought to me in an hour.” He turns and makes his way into his palace, his retinue falling into place.

Richelieu eyes Rochefort. “Well? You heard him, did not you? Take the cadet taken to the king’s ante-chamber, and have him wait there.”

“Why’s the king so interested in him?” Rochefort asks before he can stop himself. It’s not wise to let the cardinal know that his own attention has already been arrested by the boy.

“Didn’t you hear?” Richelieu yawns. “He’s the one, along with those three wretches naturally, who caused that commotion at the ruins two days ago.”

Ah, yes, the dueling.  And the boy had been involved. Rochefort hides a smile. “Why weren’t they simply arrested?” This sort of thing was exactly what they’d been waiting for to deal with the musketeers.

“Somehow the king heard of it. He’s chosen to reward them instead.” Richelieu’s eyes narrow, and Rochefort pities the boy for the side he’s apparently found himself on. Ultimately it will win him no favors.

“Fetch him.” The cardinal says dismissively.

Rochefort bows and goes to obey.

*   *   *

The guard is dispersing as he heads down the stairs. D’Artagnan’s following the others.

“Gascon.” Rochefort calls.

D’Artagnan turns, but it’s Athos speaks first. “What do you want, Rochefort?”

“A word with your young friend.”

Their hands are already on their swords at his words. Rochefort holds up his hand. "I mean the boy no harm. The king wishes to see him."

Athos and Aramis exchange a look. "Indeed."

"No doubt to reward him for his fine service," Rochefort sneers at them.

Porthos's hand tightens on his sword hilt. Rochefort is tempted to reach for his own blade, but there's no time to indulge his hobbies for amusement.

"Shall I tell the cardinal he refused to come, and have him summoned by the scruff of his neck?" He drawls. D’Artagnan bristles at the comment and Rochefort’s determination returns and solidifies. He _will_ still have the youth in his bed.

Athos purses his lips. "That won't be necessary." He rests his hand on the back of D'Artagnan's neck for a moment. "Go with him. D'Artagnan."

D’Artagnan. Rochefort likes it. It suits the lad.

"But," Porthos objects.

Athos silences him. "One of us will wait for you.”

"You don’t have to.” D'Artagnan tells him. "I can look after myself, you know."

Athos pulls him closer for a moment. "I know, but this game between the king and cardinal is bigger than you or I." His words are a cool warning and D'Artagnan reminds himself that they serve the king, and Rochefort belongs to the cardinal, though he doesn’t yet fully understand why this should be such a matter of contention. He nods and Athos releases him. "Find us after, whenever the cardinal's dog will let you."

Rochefort bares his teeth in a mocking snarl. "Perhaps I'll keep the pup for my own."

This time it's Aramis who keeps Athos from lashing out. "Just go."

D'Artagnan looks at Rochefort. "Well?"

Rochefort bows. "This way, musketeer."

D’Artagnan follows him up the steps and down the hall in silence before he finally breaks it.

“What does the king want with me?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”  Rochefort leads him to the king’s antechamber. “Wait here.”

“You’re not,” D’Artagnan fumbled. “Remaining here with me?”

“I’ll be in the hall.” Rochefort hesitates, and then reaches out to straighten D’Artagnan’s collar which has gone askew. “Bow, kiss his hand if he offers it, and answer any question put to you.” He turns to go.

“Thank you.” D’Artagnan says, but Rochefort takes no notice. He takes his place in the hall. Ostensibly he’s waiting for the cardinal, but there’s no harm in speaking with D’Artagnan afterwards.

*  *  *

D’Artagnan shift shifts his weight nervously as he waits. He counts the swirls in the design on the wall tapestry and makes a face at the polished suit of armor in the corner. Finally the door is opened and he’s commanded to open.

The king is reclining upon a chaise lounge, speaking to the cardinal.

D’Artagnan hesitates and the king beckons him forward with an impatient gesture. “Come in, come in.”

D’Artagnan moves forward, bowing low before the king. His knees tremble in spite of himself.

“Ah, so you’re the musketeer who caused the cardinal’s guard so much trouble the other day.” The king shoots an amused look at the cardinal who makes no comment on the king’s wit.

“It was not just me, your majesty.” D’Artagnan says.

“Of course, of course, but you are new to the musketeers, are you not?”

“I passed the entrance exam only two days ago.” D’Artagnan tells him.

“Excellent.” The king claps his hands together. “And your name is?”

“D’Artagnan, your majesty.”

“Ah, well, D’Artagnan, continue in that manner and you shall soon be one of my favorites.”

 “You’re most kind, majesty.”

“And you’re lucky, young sir, wouldn’t you say, Richelieu?”

“Very lucky.” The cardinal agrees, surveying D’Artagnan with a thoughtful look. “Let us hope his luck continues.”

“Indeed.” The king takes a purse from his belt. “Because you pleased me so much.”

“Majesty, I,” D’Artagnan is overwhelmed. He accepts the purse, grateful for it (already his funds have been running low) and kisses the proffered hand before he’s dismissed.

He’s still smiling when he exits the chamber. Rochefort looks him up and down. “I take it the king was pleased.”

D’Artagnan tosses the purse in the air, catching it again with a grin. “He was.” The musketeers had been good to him, letting him share their lodgings and food. The purse the king bestowed upon him is heavy in his hand. Now he can help repay their kindness.

“Make the most of that while you can.” Rochefort advises him.

D’Artagnan shrugs as he puts the purse away. “I hope I will always do my duty, whether the king favors me or not.”

Rochefort makes no comment as they walk down the hall. D’Artagnan eyes the man at his side. He has several questions, but some of them he cannot simply blurt out in the hall like this.

 Instead he asks, “Does the cardinal want something with me as well? I saw him looking at me earlier.”

“No doubt he’s curious about any new addition to the musketeers. Especially one such as you who’s already distinguished himself so distinctly.”

D’Artagnan muses on that as they walk down the hall. As pleased as he is to be recognized by the king, the cardinal’s eyes had felt more disquieting. Still, the king’s notice is more important. After all it’s the _king_. D’Artagnan is buoyed by the honor he’d received. Now his father will have to be pleased, no matter that D’Artagnan had disobeyed his orders and run off to Paris. Now he’s a musketeer.

There’s a proud jaunt to his stride as he walks down the corridor.

*  *  *

Athos is waiting at the bottom of the stairs when they reach them. Rochefort sighs under his breath at the sight of the musketeer and D’Artagnan hesitates. He’d assumed that the man would at least say _something_ about their previous encounters _,_ at least but now Rochefort’s only frowning at Athos.

“Come along, D’Artagnan,” Athos doesn’t even bother to look back to see if he’s following as he turns to go.

At that Rochefort’s amused.  Who’s treating the boy as his hound now? “Gascon.”

D’Artagnan pauses, looking at Athos before back at Rochefort.

Rochefort leans in. “You still owe me your…” his gaze slides over D’Artagnan’s body until the Gascon’s blushing. “Side of our bargain.” Had D’Artagnan truly thought he’d forgotten?

D’Artagnan swallows thickly. “I.”

“D’Artagnan,” Athos looks back now, frowning at them.

“Are Gascons men of their word or not?” Rochefort murmurs, his breath warm upon D’Artagnan’s cheek.

D’Artagnan stiffens. “They are.” His eyes are proud, unflinching. “I will keep my word, monsieur.”

Rochefort smiles. “I look forward to it.”

At that D’Artagnan can’t help swallowing again, his nerve betraying him in the end. “As do I.”

Rochefort’s answering smile reminds him of the cat that lives in the stables back home, known for playing with the mice until they’re too beaten to try to scamper away.

“Something that you wish to say, Rochefort?” Athos breaks in, watching Rochefort coolly.

“How’s your fencing coming along?” Rochefort keeps his eyes on D’Artagnan.

“Well enough.” D’Artagnan responds. Isn’t it obvious? The king himself commended him! Still, he knows he owes Rochefort that.

“What’s it matter to you?” Athos challenges.

Rochefort shrugs. “Not a whit. Except I hear he could use some more practice.” His eyes rest on D’Artagnan’s. “The fields outside the city walls are always good for private practice, especially at dusk.” He glances at Athos. “If you care to avoid the cardinal’s guards, of course.”

“Be on your way.” Athos says, his tone brusque. “The boy is in good hands now, Rochefort.”

“Ah, but he’s _been_ in better hands.” Rochefort can’t resist.

Again D’Artagnan flushes before he can stop himself. Damn the man. Satisfied, Rochefort heads back up the steps.

“What’s he mean by that?” Athos looks at D'Artagnan with curious eyes.

“An insult, no doubt.” D’Artagnan says hastily. But there’s no insult worthy of touching Rochefort’s hands. He thinks about the man’s words, and nods slightly to himself. 

“So there's nothing more to all that?” Athos glances at him as they head toward the gate.

D'Artagnan merely shrugs and Athos doesn't press the matter. 

*  *  *

_That evening._

D’Artagnan looks back one more to make sure none of the musketeers had followed him. Of course, there’s no reason why they would. They can’t possible guess at what he’s doing.

He’s still not entirely where he’s supposed to meet Rochefort, but assumes the man will find him.

He assumes correctly.

D’Artagnan's heading for the city gate when he hears a familiar voice.

“You’re very prompt.”

He glances around to see Rochefort leaning against a stone wall with his arms crossed.

“I wasn’t sure if you meant tonight, or…” D’Artagnan falters.  There are farmers on their way home from market, and children playing in the street. Rochefort can’t possibly mean to do this here in public. “Why did you ask me to meet you here?”

A cart rumbles past and D’Artagnan moves quickly out of the way. He steps closer to Rochefort.

Rochefort straightens up, dusting his hat off. “To continue your training of course.”

D’Artagnan looks around once more before muttering. “Not to simply fuck me?” The man is here waiting for him. Is it possible that he’s been thinking about that night in the inn as much as D’Artagnan has?

Rochefort pauses. “If that was my sole aim, I could pay a whore for better.”

D’Artagnan clenches his teeth. Would it kill the man to admit to wanting him? “Why don’t you then?”

“Because,” Rochefort says, “I want to see your progress with your sword, in bed and out,” He grins.

The crudity makes D’Artagnan stare at the ground. “You…”

Rochefort takes pity on him then. “Come.”

“You don’t want to,” D’Artagnan touches his sword hilt.

“Tonight’s waited long enough.” Rochefort tells him, and that is confession enough. D’Artagnan’s breath quickens and he follows the man.

*  *  *

Rochefort had considered taking D’Artagnan to an inn, but what was the point in paying money for a room when his own chambers weren’t that far away?

He leads the way, D’Artagnan close behind him.

Rochefort holds an apartment over a bakery. He leads D’Artagnan up the side steps, holding the door open. D’Artagnan brushes past him, looking around curiously. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting. It’s just a room with a wide bed, a table in one corner with two chairs. But there’s a fine rug upon the floor in front of the fire place, and books upon the shelves. Rochefort removes his sword belt and lays it on the mantle over the fire place.

“There’s wine.” He nods to the jug on the shelf. “Pour us each a cup.”

D’Artagnan obeys. His heart beat a little faster, anticipating what’s to come.

Rochefort removes his leather tunic, the soft black shirt billowing loose around his hips. He glances at D’Artagnan, and then he removes that as well. D’Artagnan can barely breathe as Rochefort continues undressing. He removes his boots and breeches, stripping off his stockings and then, at last his underclothes.

Now, D’Artagnan feasts his eyes on the cock he remembers so vividly in his dreams.

Rochefort holds out his hand, and wordlessly D’Artagnan hands him a cup of wine.

Rochefort takes a sip, watching him over the cup. “Well?”

D’Artagnan removes his hat, and sword belt, and his boots, but when he reaches for his shirt, Rochefort stops him. “Kneel there.”

His knees obey before D’Artagnan can register it. He watches as Rochefort finishes his wine and sets the cup aside. Rochefort is lithe muscle and sinew. The dark hair on his chest leading down to his groin is scattered with light gray. There’s a faded scar on his hip, and another on his chest. His cock is…. D’Artagnan looks away to keep from staring it. He focuses on the room again.

“I would have thought you’d hold rooms at court.” D’Artagnan says the first thing that comes to mind.

Rochefort is behind him now, and then he steps in front of D’Artagnan. Now D’Artagnan has to look at it. He studies the cock in front of him, as Rochefort slowly slides his hand down from the base to the tip.

“Why would you think that?”

D’Artagnan shrugs. Rochefort eyes him, and this time D’Artagnan leans forward of his own accord. He takes the tip into his mouth, sucking lightly on the foreskin.  Rochefort’s hand rests on his shoulder, then moves up to thread through his hair.

D’Artagnan grows bolder, taking the man’s cock deeper into his throat. It’s strange to realize he can arouse the man so. Perhaps Rochefort has indeed been thinking of this since his departure back at the inn. He risks a glance upward and pauses, cock pulsing on his tongue as Rochefort stares down at him.

Abruptly, Rochefort pulls out, his cock nearly slapping D’Artagnan across the lips as he does. “Enough.”

D’Artagnan gets to his feet. “Did I,” has he failed in some way? He licks his lips, wiping the saliva from them.

Rochefort reaches for his wine and pauses, realizing what he’s asking. “It’s…nothing.” If he had let the boy continue, he would have spent himself far too quickly, and tonight he’s going to fuck D’Artagnan if it’s the last thing he does.

“On the bed.” Rochefort nods at the cabinet beside the bed. “There’s oil in there. Prepare yourself.”

D’Artagnan’s cheeks are bathed in flames as he pours oil over his fingers. Rochefort drinks his wine, watching him as he lies back on the bed.

“Do you want me to undress?” D’Artagnan ventures.

Rochefort waves his hand impatiently, as though D’Artagnan should have already done that. He sheds his clothes more quickly this time. His own cock stiffens eagerly and D’Artagnan prays the other man doesn’t comment upon it.

He sits back on the bed. It’s one thing to do this by himself when he’s alone and aroused, but in front of Rochefort , he hesitates.

 “Spread your legs wider.”

D’Artagnan does, resolutely not looking at Rochefort as finally he inches his fingers inside him. He remembers lying there on the bed after Rochefort had abandoned him, remembers how desperate he had been then. His finger sinks deeper and he bites down on the moan already welling up on him. The man must think him a whore.

He looks up and finds Rochefort standing at the foot of the bed, watching him in silence. D’Artagnan hesitates, and then adds another finger, working them inside himself.

Rochefort kneels on the bed.  He wraps his fist around D’Artagnan’s cock, as D’Artgnan’s fingers stutter to a halt. “Keep going.”

D’Artagnan does, his motions awkward as his cock is stroked slowly in the heat of Rochefort’s palm.

“I,” D’Artagnan loses whatever words he’d been about to say when Rochefort leans down to take him in his mouth.

His head falls back, now unable to suppress the cry on his lips. Rochefort’s as skilled in this as he is with the sword, making D’Artagnan’s hips rise and fall in a helpless attempt to control himself. He fails; he has no control here. Rochefort’s tongue moves wickedly upon, teasing him until D’Artagnan can feel his balls tightening, and by christ, the man is going to hold him there until he gives in.

“I _can’t,_ ” D’Artagnan breathes, and then with another helpless cry, he’s coming quickly down Rochefort’s throat, in long heated waves.

Rochefort sucks him dry, before straightening up. D’Artagnan gazes up at him. His entire body feels limp and drained. If the man ordered him to move he’s not entirely sure he could. Yet there’s still more to come. He eyes Rochefort’s cock, hard against his belly.

D’Artagnan gazes at it wordlessly.    

“You can stay on your back this time.” Rochefort tells him, standing once more.  He wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb and reaches for his wine. It mixes pleasantly with the taste of the boy’s seed.

He wants to watch D’Artagnan’s face as he fucks him. It had been a long uncomfortable ride back to Paris thinking about what he had left behind. Now Rochefort can take his time and he intends to do just that.

“Lie back.”

D’Artagnan waits, his breath still coming in slow uneven breaths.

Rochefort settles between his thighs, lifting his legs. “Take a breath,” he advises, “This will hurt at first.”

“I’m not afraid of pain.” D’Artagnan says. It’s a reckless lie, and Rochefort knows it.

He smiles. “Good.” Gripping D’Artagnan’s hips, he presses against him, and then, watching D’Artagnan’s face, thrusts straight in.

D’Artgnan’s fingers grip the bed on other side of him. He can feel the sweat rising on his chest, at the first thrust, and the pain, god, he can’t breathe. Rochefort adjusts his angle slightly causing D’Artagnan to moan.

“Relax.” Rochefort tells him, reaching down to brush his fingertips over D’Artagnan’s lips.

D’Artagnan glares at him, tempted to bite. How can anyone relax with this happening? Still, he does his best, and the pain lessens slightly. Rochefort moves slowly, letting D’Artagnan grow more accustomed to the feel of his cock. D’Artagnan’s chest heaves as he tries to accustom himself to the sensation. Rochefort rocks his lips a little, delighting in the expression in D’Artgnan’s eyes.

Then he withdraws only to bring D’Artagnan’s ass a little closer to him this time as he thrusts back in. D’Artagnan moans again, but there’s more pleasure in it this time. Now, faintly, he can understand. The rhythm of it starts to make sense.

Rochefort leans down to slide his teeth along D’Artagnan’s neck and feels the boy arch up against him. He nips at the flesh there before straightening up again.

Now He thrusts in evenly at a steady pace, making D’Artagnan squirm with impatience before pressing deeper. Once he’s buried in the youth, Rochefort pauses, gazing down at him. If he had known what this would feel like, not Milady, not the cardinal’s orders, not God himself could have dragged him away from the inn before he’d fucked D’Artagnan thoroughly into the mattress.

“What’re you waiting for?” D’Artagnan asks, hoarse and needy. He wishes for the wine now to wet his lips and tongue. He’s dizzy from this alone. His cock is already starting to harden again.

“What will you do to come?” Rochefort grazes his neck once more with his teeth.

“Anything, christ, anything.”  D’Artagnan babbles.

Rochefort sucks on the tender skin, making it just this side of painful. "Would you let me fuck you in the courtyard where anyone could see? Where your musketeers watch you as I fucked you raw?"

D'ARtagnan moans at the thought. Rochefort thrusts deeper and he gasps, "Yes, I would." 

Rochefort smiles. He withdraws, and then slides in again sharper this time, making D’Artagnan feel every single inch of the cock that’s inside him. D’Artagnan shudders and Rochefort repeats the motion. D’Artagnan’s hands are on his ass, holding Rochefort against him, meeting Rochefort thrust for thrust. His own cock brushes against against Rochefort’s belly, hard and eager.

Rochefort grips him with one hand, moving faster now as he strokes D’Artagnan in time with his thrusts. D’Artagnan’s head is spinning, heat dancing upwards from his torso. He stares up at Rochefort and then Rochefort subtly moves inside him as he strokes D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan gasps. Never in his life has he experienced such intense pleasure. He clenches tighter around Rochefort and then, he can feel the man’s body tensing; Rochefort comes, his fingers digging deeply into D’Artagnan’s hipbones and cock.

D’Artagnan spills across the man’s stomach with a shout, his head falling backwards. In this instant he is not a man, not a musketeer, nothing at all, weightless, boneless, lost to the essence of sheer divine pleasure.

Rochefort eases out of him and he leans back upon the bed, panting from it.

Rochefort lies there a moment on his back, watching the young Gascon. It’s tempting to touch him more, to keep him here in bed as long as he wants. It wouldn’t be hard to do. D’Artagnan’s dazed and content. All Rochefort has to do is offer him more pleasure and the boy will be his.

He hesitates, and then sits up. As tempting as the prospect is, he can’t allow himself that.

D’Artagnan lies there on his back, still flushed and breathing hard. He has no words. He fears he may never be able to speak again. He looks over at Rochefort. Three times they’ve met now, and yet they’ve only kissed once. D’Artagnan wonders what the man would do if he simply kissed him now. If...

“There.” Rochefort’s deliberately casual as he reaches for the cloth, cleaning himself off. “Now you can return to your precious musketeers and tell them I fucked the king’s loyalty right out of you.”

D’Artagnan stares up at him, bewildered. “What do you mean?” He can’t comprehend this rivalry. What’s the point of it all? “Is that all you cared about? Besting the musketeers?”

Rochefort shrugs.  “A lesser aim, but an enjoyable one nevertheless." He lets that sink in before adding, “As it is, duty first before pleasure.” He smirks.

D’Artagnan sits up, wincing. He reaches for his shirt. “We’re even then.”

“We are indeed.” Rochefort pours himself more wine. “I wonder if Athos will find you so worthy when he knows you spread your legs for me.”

D’Artagnan finishes pulling his shirt down. “You won’t tell him?” He hates how pleading his voice sounds, but the thought of what the musketeer would say if he knew of this tryst leaves him aching.

_Ah, the agony of the young and naive. So earnest, so pitiful._ Rochefort debates as he gazes at D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan’s shirt hangs down to his thighs. His cock hangs spent between his legs. He would have liked to suck it and make D’Artagnan tremble once more.

“I thought you weren’t ashamed.”

D’Artagnan reaches for his breeches. His cock and thighs are covered again and Rochefort feels a pang of loss.

“I’m not.” D’Artagnan hesitates. “If I had known who you were...” He leaves the rest unsaid.

“A little late for that.”

“Are you not a gentleman?” D’Artagnan reaches for his boots. 

Rochefort barks out a laugh, surprising him. “I do, but a gentleman can be just as a coarse as a country boy.”

D’Artagnan fastens his belt. “Then tell them.” He spits. “And go to the devil.” He wants to be gone from this room, from the stink of sex lingering in the air. The knowledge that Rochefort’s only fucked him to humiliate him and goad the musketeers aches worse than the physical pain. He reaches for his hat and his sword, turning to face the man who still stands there naked before him.  

Rochefort takes a sip of wine, gazing at him.

“I trust it was satisfying.” D’Artagnan can’t resist the bitter words.

“Adequate.” Rochefort says with a shrug of his shoulders. The lie is easy to tell, but as he sees the look in D’Artagnan’s eyes, Rochefort feels a moment of regret at his words.

D’Artagnan’s face burns at the insult, but he maintains his composure and bows low. “Goodnight, monsieur. We will not meet again.”

“So sure of that? Paris is very small, Gascon. And a royal court is even smaller.”

D’Artagnan’s fingers tighten on his hat. “Nevertheless, monsieur, I bid you farewell.” He turns and walks out of Rochefort’s rooms.

Rochefort goes to pour himself another glass of wine. For the first time, the room feels strangely empty.


End file.
